Like All Americans Do

The ride out of Boston started innocently enough.  2:00PM on a Friday. The idea of weekend traffic hadn’t even entered my mind.  But somewhere beyond Newton, en route towards Worcester, the traffic came to a standstill and stayed that way for the next hour.  At first, I was convinced that it was just an accident.  Up ahead, around that bend, there will be a fender bender and it will become clear that everyone, ourselves included were only just rubber necking.  The reason for all this compromise will become clear.  

But the explanation never came.  We just crawled along slowly for an hour and then in fits and starts, finally began to speed up.  My trip to Boston had been very positive, with each meeting I had.  I enjoyed the city much more than I remember having enjoyed it, the last few times I’ve gone.  I seemed to spend a lot of time along the Charles River this time, unzipping older memories of where things were stored and what areas I knew were connected to the other areas I was heading toward. 

Roaring now, through North Hampton finally, I decide to call a friend in California.  I have a U.S. phone all of a sudden.  I can call people with impunity.  Cost?  There doesn’t seem to be much of any charge with this pixel phone on the Google Fi network.  My first friend isn’t there.  He must be screening calls, like all Americans do.  My second friend is shocked it’s me.  He’s at work.  Just now isn’t great timing.  Call me when you can.  Then I call another San Francisco friend who is there and who, wonderfully has time to talk and we talk all the way till I’m well into the Berkshires.  It’s a great call, with many critical things we must share and when I’m done I feel so warm and well-engaged, which lasts for about eight seconds till I notice that the gas take is only a hair’s breadth away from rock-bottom. 

Fearing the wrath of my mother, who’s car I’m driving, I begin to fret.  My exit is still sixteen miles away.  Sixteen is a lot of miles.  It’s remote and there are no obvious exits up ahead racing through the Berkshires. Was that a drop I can now discernibly notice in this fuel gauge? Oh dear.  I look around to see if there is a tool telling you how many miles are let until it drops to nada, but there’s nothing I can see.  And now, up ahead there is sign for a service station in two miles and at that moment, I knew I’d be OK.  Still, out of proprietary sake I coast down the hill, without my foot on the gas.  Just be sure. 

Friday, 8/16/19